


Time has a Funny Way of Bringing Us Together

by MechanicZero



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU!Deans, All of the AUs friends, Awkward Cas, God I feel so bad for him, M/M, all of them - Freeform, confused cas, sorry cas, time traveler!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicZero/pseuds/MechanicZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU Timetraveler!Castiel Reincarnated!Dean) Castiel keeps meeting Dean everywhere he goes. How is that possible when Castiel keeps time traveling all over the planet and Dean can't? Well, it's a long story...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The first time they met was Tuesday, February 29, 2013. Castiel could never forget anything about that day (the wind was howling in an awful snowstorm and the bar they were at was called the Clover) but, then again, it’s not like he ever wanted to forget anything about his…connection to Dean. 

The Clover was a dimly lit bar only a little a ways away from his apartment and too full of smoke for anyone to take a full breath, but the only place that was open this late during the biggest storm of the season. Castiel sat at the bar, a shot of vodka in his hands ad some old REO Speedwagon song playing on the radio when Dean sat down on the bar besides him. 

Dean—well, he didn’t know him as Dean yet; he was still a mysterious blonde at this point—was wearing a faded leather jacket that fit him perfectly with a couple of flannel shirts and t-shirts on underneath. His old blue jeans were well worn; holes left his knees exposed to the air, and were tucked lovingly into a pair of black combat boots. This was by far his favorite outfit on Dean, as it was just pure Dean, no fancy suits or hand made Italian ties. 

He ordered two beers and a glass of whiskey and downed them in the time span of three minutes. He didn’t speak (which was good for Castiel; smack talk just wasn’t his thing), just ordered more beer and whiskey and tried to drown out what ever sorrows he had. They sat in companionable silence for the rest of the night, just kept on buying drinks for themselves—now that he thinks about it, that is how they talked; through alcohol. 

Around four—in the morning, of course—when the wind had quieted down some and the snow wasn’t coming down as thickly as before, Dean got up and offered to share a cab with him, since he didn’t have enough money for one by himself (the first words exchanged between them). Castiel agreed, only marginally drunk but not sober enough to walk the few blocks hold in the snow, and they left the bar together. 

They went their separate ways after that night, never expecting to see each other after that one drunken night. 

The second time they met was Tuesday, March 7, 2013. At the Clover. Because of another snowstorm (this one less violent than the last one, but still quite horrible when you had to walk home through it) crash landed in New York at 7 at night and trapped them in the blacked out bar with the only the cold, the bartender, and a whole lot of alcohol to drink until the storm let up. 

They laughed at the irony and began to talk after that (really, what else was there to do in a cold bar at night?). They sat close to each other, thighs pressed and arms brushing often to preserve heat in the godforsaken cold of the bar. Hours passed by as they talked in comfortably, but to them it was like minutes; the time flew by too fast for them. 

The storm let up around 11 o’clock the next morning, long after Dean and Castiel had fallen asleep at the bar, and the power came back an hour and a half later, if the hung over bartender could tell time properly. They left around 2, sharing a cab (again) and promising to meet each other in the bar every Tuesday from now on, because if fate wanted them together (the storms conveniently stranding them at the same bar when they were both without a car? Twice?), who were they to deny fate?


	2. Chapter 1

The first time Castiel time travels is the next day (Wednesday, March 8) in the middle of work. He doesn’t know how or why or where he ends up, all he knows is that he’s suddenly in a large warehouse between two groups of people (who are all quite well dressed) and there are guns. Lots and lots of guns. 

He’s terrified and confused all at once. The men (on both sides, oh boy this is looking up) are shocked out of their minds, but immediately start firing. At the other side? At him? Oh, most definitely at him. One side is not moving, just shooting at him with an accuracy that most movie villains have yet he still gets hit—just a grazing bullet in his right shoulder, but it hurts worse than one could imagine. 

Castiel is tackled to the ground from behind, as they were moving towards him (and shooting too). He lands on the ground with an oomph, his left wrist most certainly cracking as it makes contact with the concrete from holding his bleeding arm. The man above him is firm—all hard muscle and broad shoulders—and is doing an excellent job at holding him down and keeping him there. He shoots, along with the others from his side and they eventually drive the opposing team away. 

When the remnants of the other side finished retreating (or were lying on the floor dead) the man above him gets off his back, grabbing his good shoulder and lifting him up too. He expects a gun at his head and a short but intense interrogation of “Who are you?” and “How did you get here” that ends in his untimely death, but he is just pushed forward and to the outside of the warehouse. He’s frantically looking around, trying to get some hint as to where he is when the doors open to reveal the outside world. 

Cars. Ancient carriage like cars leisurely stroll down the streets at ten miles per hour. And the men are all wearing the same type of suits the ones in the warehouse were while the women are all dressed in long, revealing dresses with fur (is that real fox fur?) scarves and high heels that look painful to look at, much less walk in. He continues to look around, trying to find a newspaper, anything that could give him a clue to where he is, but his shoved unceremoniously into one of the ancient vehicles before he can see too much. 

The car ride is short (that’s really all he knew, they blindfolded him in the car), and they end up somewhere that smells a lot like smoke and cigars. When the car halts, his right shoulder is grabbed and Castiel yells out in pain. Despite being blindfolded, he can tell that people are starting to panic around him now. They keep asking him questions and shouting, but now that the adrenaline has worn off and the realization that he has lost a lot of blood has worn off, he’s slipping into warm, safe unconsciousness before he has even left the car.

He wakes up on a leather couch. His trench coat is draped over his shirtless chest, which is covered in bandages (it’s just a shoulder wound, why are there so many bandages?). He’s looking at the ceiling—it’s black; kinda boring for a ceiling—and tries to sit up, but is pushed back down by a firm hand when his chest flares with pain. 

He angles his head better to get a view of his mystery helper only manages to catch a glimpse of slicked back blonde hair before the man disappears from view. Knowing he can’t move without a risk of popping a majority of the stitches (stitches? For a grazing bullet?), he sighs and makes do with staring at the ceiling for the time being. 

“You gave the doctor’s quite a scare, young man,” a deep voice vibrates around the room, “Well, with three bullets in you, you gave all my men quite the scare.”

His eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, “Three bullets? I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken, sir; I was only hit in the shoulder.”

A loud, mirthless laugh fills the room and before Castiel can ask why he is laughing, the man responds, “I wish I had more men like you. Most of ‘em get shot at and run away screaming, despite denying it later. Yet you…don’t even notice getting shot three times.”

“Um, thank you,” Castiel responds, a blush creeping up on his cheeks. He’s still very confused, though, and has to ask, “If you wouldn’t mind telling me, where are we and what is the date? And, um, who are you?”

The man comes into view now—blonde hair, forest green eyes, with a wide and broad chest—and smirks, “It’s December 16, 1929, and we’re in Chicago. I’m Dean Wesson.” 

Castiel lies on the sofa, eyes wide and scared, as he takes in this new information (1929? How is that possible? What’s going on?). But he recognizes Dean, despite the new outfit and different hair style, and knows that what he says must be true. He trusts Dean—maybe not this Dean, but he did save his life. He’s staring at him now, his eyes boring into the impossibly green ones, and all he can manage in return is a soft, “Oh.” 

He laughs again and brings up a chair to sit besides Castiel on the sofa (he’s straddling it like Dean does in the bar). His eyes turn serious and he knows that this next question isn’t going to one that he can answer. 

“So, how’s a guy like you just poof into our little fight back there in the warehouse?” His eyes are still open and honest, but Castiel can see the calculating, cold part of Dean that is brutal and ready to kill him if he doesn’t answer this question correctly. 

Castiel beings to fidget under that dark stare, but eventually mumbles out , “I-I really don’t know. One moment I was at my desk at work, the next I was being shot at. Really, I swear.”

It seems that that was the right answer, as Dean’s eyes grow warm again and he smiles, “Alrighty then. Let’s get you fixed up and back to work then, eh?”

Castiel stays for about a month in Dean’s room in whatever building he’s staying in. He sleeps mostly (now that the pain has sunk in, 3 bullet wounds and a graze isn’t exactly paradise) but every now and then he gets up to watch Dean do his paperwork. He learns that Dean Wesson is the head of the most ruthless gang in Chicago and that everyone fears him. That is, everyone but Castiel. 

He helps out Dean as mush as he can, as thanks for letting him stay while he rests and figures out what he’s going to be doing with the rest of his life, now that he’s stuck in the 1920s. The Great Depression hits halfway through his stay with Dean and it’s horrible (and quite fascinating too, to see how the world was effected in real life). 

He’s mostly better when Dean gives him a couple of fake ID’s and passports (along with at least ten thousand dollars). Castiel is confused at the gesture, but Dean explains that it’s probably better if he leaves town for a while, to escape the Depression, and that if he thought he was going to be returning to his job and home, that he’s probably lost it long ago. 

Castiel agrees wholeheartedly. 

He’s packing up the little he has (the passports, money, clothing and suits that he borrowed from Dean) when he feels a eyes watching him. He turns to see Dean, standing in the doorway to his room—it’s technically Dean’s but during his stay, he’s confiscated it. He zips up the last of his things and turns to face him. 

“So, I guess it’s time,” Castiel says, eyes downcast. He doesn’t want to leave his friend, but he knows it was only a matter of time before Dean made him leave. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Dean confesses, suddenly much closer to him. His arms are twitching, like he wants to hug Castiel, but is suppressing the feeling. 

“I thought you wanted me to leave?” Castiel asks, confused and slightly shocked at Dean. 

“I would never want you to go,” Dean looks away, green eyes dark, “You’re the best fri- worker I could ever have. I just don’t want to look like I’m playing favorites with someone not even part of the family.”

Castiel smiles a soft smile, “It’s okay. I understand. I should go anyway.”

They stand there for a moment, before Castiel is hesitantly wrapping his arms around Dean, “Thank you. For everything.”

Dean is solid beneath him, but pats him on his back, “You’re welcome, Cas.”

Castiel looks up at Dean, suitcase and ID’s in hand, and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Chapter 1, as promised. Hope you all like it!


	3. Chapter 2

Castiel appears in a small, quaint coffee shop. It’s quiet, and full of collage students with laptops and coffee addicts getting their next fix. It’s the type of coffee shop that he would have liked to go to before work and on his days off if he didn’t live in a big city that only has Starbucks. He turns to go find a place to sit down when he bumps into a man taller and broader than him and gets coffee spilled all over his trench coat. 

He winces at the feel of the scorching beverage soaking into his jacket and suit and looks up to apologize. The words die on his tongue, though, when he comes face to face with bright green eyes and short cropped blonde hair. Castiel stands there with his mouth open like a fish as he gazes upon the man. 

“Son of a bitch!” the Dean look alike yells, coffee spilling onto his leather jacket and flannel shirts, “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to knock into you.”

Castiel stares up at him in shock, but quickly snaps his mouth closed and responds, “You have no need to apologize. It was my fault for not watching my surroundings like I should have been. My apologies for your wasted coffee.”

“Here, let me at least help you clean up or something. Your coat’s gonna stain if I don’t,” he’s already off getting napkins and ordering new coffee (two new coffees, actually) before Castiel can respond. 

He’s very confused, but decides to go find a table to wait at. He walks towards an open, catching a glimpse at someone’s open newspaper and sees that the date is March 16, 1963. Castiel isn’t all that surprised that he’s still not back in his own year, but wishes that he was. He has a meeting with Dean (his Dean, not this Coffee Shop one) on Tuesday he has to be at. 

This Dean comes back to their table and helps him out of his coat and begins to mop it clean for him. He blushes red, but takes the coffee that is offered to him. 

Dean eventually sits down, having done the best he can to fix the trench coat and takes a long sip of his coffee (black, no sugar). 

“I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean offers, obviously unnerved by Castiel’s constant staring. 

Castiel nods at him, “Castiel. Sorry for, uh, bumping into you.”

“For the last time, it isn’t your fault,” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes at him. Castiel tilts his head, trying to comprehend his mannerisms. He’s so similar to his Dean and Dean Wesson it’s startling, but different at the same time. 

The sit there for some time, chatting about random things, like the weather and which sports team is winning (something he knows nothing about, sadly; it ends up with Dean having the explain everything to him). It’s nice, but not as comfortable as talking to his Dean or Wesson—after he got to know him, at least. 

Time goes by quickly, and soon Dean is looking at his watch and telling him that he has to get to class or he’ll be late. 

Castiel nods at him, and they exchange goodbyes. 

He ends up staying at the coffee shop for the rest of the day, enjoying the warm atmosphere and delicious coffee. The sky is a dark inky blue before he gets up to leave and find a motel to stay at for the night. 

He walks out the little shop and vanishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! I really just wanted something to post so people wouldn't get mad at me. Also I wanted something slower than the last chapter to give people a break. Sorry! The next chapter will be a longy though.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is my first shot at a multi-chapter fic, so I don't know how often I'll be able to update it. I'm working on chapter two right now, so that should be up by the end of today or tomorrow (hopefully). If I stop updating for a really long time, feel free to bug me all you want. Feedback is appreciated, but not necessary if you don't want to give it. 
> 
> Hope everyone has enjoyed it so far!!


End file.
